The Farm
by Whatevo
Summary: A prequel to the story 'the shed', a short story in Woman in a Lampshade by Elizabeth Jolley. It deals with the past of the old woman and her husband and son.


The Farm: Prequel to The Shed

I sit in the quiet of my kitchen and watch the sun sink slowly behind the tops of the trees. I love this time of day when it is neither dark nor light and there is stillness to the world. It is when he comes home to me. All day he works in the fields and in the forest but when night falls he returns to me. We live on a beautiful farm nestled in-between two mountains, surrounded by a thick forest. We moved here shortly after our wedding, the property was a gift from my Uncle Darren who owns most of the farms in the area. When he gave it to us he told me he wanted me to be able to raise my family in the same area my family has lived for five generations now. He wanted my children to grow to love the valley as we all have. Our farm is small and we barely make enough money to support ourselves but it is ours and we are with each other and that is all that matters.

The black cockatoos screech as they farewell the sun. Their call sets my teeth on edge and I have no patience for their pointless squawking. They call to each other for hours and say nothing; real conversations have nothing to do with the words spoken.

I can see him coming in from the fields, riding Nellie, his hair messy, falling in his face and getting in his eyes. It always gets in his eyes and I am always there to brush it away. But now I am with child and I can no longer be out in the fields helping him to work and sharing the burdens a farm brings. I must remain in the cottage and wait each day for him to come back to me.

He walks through the door and I can see his exhaustion, but he always has a smile and a kind word for me.

"Ah my Butterfly I've missed you today," He smiles, "my day is so slow when you are not there to cheer me with your smile and your laughter."

Butterfly, he has called me that since we first met. It was at a church dance ten years ago. I was wearing a brightly coloured satin dress and he came up to me in a second hand suit.

"Will this beautiful Butterfly grace me with a dance?" He had asked

But now we sit in our little kitchen and eat as the sun sets on our farm. He reaches out to touch my stomach, which is large with child.

"Ah my little baby how are you today" He smiles again as he feels the baby's kick. "Our child is strong my Butterfly, strong like us."

He takes me in his arms and we walk to the porch where we watch the stars. He told me once that when he was a young boy in England his father used to take him out to watch the stars, together they would explore the infinite beauty of the night sky. After his father's death his mother had moved them all the way across the world to a small town in Australia so she could forget everything she had lost. The night is cold, I shiver at the thought of what I would do if I lost my husband and he enfolds me closer in his arms.

The next morning I rise early to make him breakfast, fried eggs, tomatoes, crispy bacon and toast. A farmer's breakfast for he has a lot of work to do around the farm and no one to help him. He comes into the kitchen and I can see something is wrong, he is pale and sweaty but he smiles at my cooking and my concern. When he returns to my side that evening he is sweaty, shaking and is tired to the point of exhaustion. I comfort him; ask him to rest and he collapses into bed. Through the night he tosses and turns in a fevered sleep and does not wake the next morning. I call to him and shake him but still he remains in his troubled dreams.

During that long day my husband slips in and out of consciousness. I sit by his bed for hours until I can bear it no longer and retreat into the coolness of the evening valley. The sun has sunk behind the mountains and the valley is bathed is a pinkie-red light. The towering trees around the house throw shadows onto the porch where I stand transfixed by the beauty of our valley. Cicadas sing their song of freedom, years they spent living underground for a few weeks in the sun. Just as people spend there whole lives searching for the one for those first few wonderful years of matrimonial bliss. The sun has sunk below the horizon and the long night has begun. My hand touches my stomach. A voice awakens within the depths of my mind. _What if the worst happens? What if he dies? The worst thing for a child is to never be able to know one of its parents. And there would be no joy for you in life that did not include Him at your side_. I shiver in the dark at these thought and He is no longer by my side to warm me. I leave the porch and return once more to my place at his bedside.

The next day His illness has become worst and he has become delusional. When he is conscious he speaks to me as if I am his long dead father and I haven't the courage to reply. Meanwhile my thoughts are filled with fears. Fears of losing Him, of raising the child alone and of being alone. We are so far from towns and civilisation and we don't own a car, I would be isolated from the world with a newborn baby. My family have all moved to the city and I would never leave the valley, it is too much a part of me. Besides, they have never come and visited me. Letters come, backwards and forwards and you're always waiting; waiting for the next letter, some news to help ease the loneliness one can feel on the farm. But then they come and have nothing with them, words but no essence of the person to cling to, no touch of their hand or image of their face. Just words.

As I wait by his bedside he beckons me closer and I can hear how laboured his breath is.

" My Butterfly," He whispers in a faint voice "please my Butterfly"

"Yes dear one I am listening"

" Our child, our little one. This farm is not a place for them to learn, to live. It is so isolated here, so far away from people. He cannot learn to live and grow out here in the valley he needs cities. Send the child to my people when he is old enough, to England."

Outside the screaming of the black cockatoos sounded once more. When their young are old enough they let them go, let them leave the nest in search of their own life. But I am not like them and cannot I let me child go so easily. They will live here and when I die they shall take over the farm with their partner as I once did. My panicked thoughts must have shown on my face for my Husband frowned and took my hand.

"Please Butterfly, do this for me."

In the country wives do as their husbands requested. They stand by their men straight and unwavering. They would do as their husbands requested even if it tears their heart in two. And despite my qualms I hear myself affirming his request.

"The child will go to England, when he is old enough."

And with that He drifts off slowly into a fevered sleep. I lie by his side and in the dark I again face my fears. Why would he make me promise this now? Why not later on when our child is born during one of those conversations parents have about their children.

In the back of my mind a voice awakes yet again. _Because He won't be there_, it whispers to me in the dark of our bedroom, _He won't be there to talk about the baby_._ Wake up Butterfly it's time to face the truth._

And it is in the dark again that I fell into a troubled sleep of dreams and nightmares, nightmares of a terrible loneliness with no one by my side to pierce the deep quiet of the valley.

The next morning He is asleep or unconscious, I can no longer differentiate between the two with him. The farm still has to be run and I am the only one to do it. The valley is covered in a thick mist, condensation covers everything and there is no noise in the usually musical valley. I feed the chickens, cattle and check the water tanks level. I check the mail, yet it is empty, nothing to distract me from the sick bed or keep me company in the dark. Nellie is restless in her stable and when I go to feed her I feel the same sense of wariness. There is a tension in the air and it feels as if time itself has stopped and the world is waiting for something. After Nellie has been fed I walked back to our cottage. In this mist its small ivy covered walls appear as ghostly and distant.

Then I feel a shock that reverberates through my entire being. I race up the cottage, blossoms from the pear trees caress my face, swing open its white wooden doors, my feet pounding up the stairs towards the little bedroom I share with my husband. He lays on the bed, still, no thrashing or fevered mutterings. His face is that of an angel, full of beauty and peace, yet deadly still. But now I know. I fall to the floor; the realisation struck me like a forceful blow and the pain cut at me like a sword.

I lay there downed by my grief. The mist left and the sun came and left. Still I lay there. Finally in the silverly light of the moon I rose. I lay my hand on his face, no longer sweaty and feverish but cold. Deep inside of me I know what needs to be done. Letters, funerals, caskets, burials, but again the voice inside awakens_. You can't, you are not strong enough_. And it is right; despite everything my husband has said without him I am not strong enough to let him go. I cannot send my husband away to some distant cemetery; I cannot be parted from him. He cannot be sent away, he can never leave. Yet the pain in having him here is too much to bear, each moment is torment. _Keep him close to you, _the voice implores_, he can be here, yet not here. This chapter in your life is over, now it is time to turn the page_. _You will forget_, the voice promises, _forget he is here, and forget what happened. All that will be left is the good memories, the happier times._

In the dim light of morning the black cockatoos one again scream their song. They have no memory for pain and loss. They accept what happens and move on. Long lasting grief is a human quality, we carry our burdens with us for our whole lives and each moment we live adds them. We search forever for closure yet we can never find it.

As I sit on a chair on the porch I look out at the valley bathed in soft morning light and my hands touch my large stomach. My thoughts reach out to our unborn child; I will take care of you and I won't let you die. And when you are old enough and I am ready you will go to England. On the edge of my vision is a patch of bare ground, its disturbed and the grass churned up. But I turn away from it and instead look forwards to the hills and trees, the valley of my farm.


End file.
